Icarus
by sniffles31
Summary: A romance between two young adults in the heady summer of seaside Greece with a dash of Greek mythology. Thoughts, feelings, fascinations, obsessions, intimacy. Heavily inspired by "Call Me By Your Name".


**_Chapter 1_**

 _Somewhere in the_ _Αιγαίο Πέλαγος_ _(Archipelago)…._

Every now and then, or maybe just once in a lifetime, a person enters one's life and claims an untraceable yet irreplaceable corner, with or without one's consent. From that moment on, life is categorized as before X or after X. Their presence becomes an integral of one's existence and when they inevitably rip away and disappear, a gaping hole is left behind, lined with memories and sensations that could never find closure. Not unlike a phantom limb. Not actually there, yet omnipresent. He likes to call it a ghost spot. Hers will always be the largest.

Even now, when he hears waves crashing against the jagged rocks of the Aegean Sea, feels the ancient brick roads rolling underneath the tires of his worn-out bike, or reads a certain line in a book tucked away in the vast shelves of his parents' library, his heart would tug at him, briefly, wistfully, and painfully. As if her fingers have an eternal invisible grasp on the organ, always waiting to strike at a moment's notice. And every time they do, he closes his eyes and his mind wanders back a decade in the family summer home.

He can hear the sound of her espadrille sandals slapping against the tiled staircase, a resounding "See ya" announced to the whole world before the door to her temporal room grumbled in its old age and clicked shut. He would be in his room, next to hers, like he is now, reading a book, transcribing music or neither. Or he could be gazing at the ocean from their shared balcony, carefully listening to all the movements in her room while trying his best to appear disinterested. Until he did not have to pretend anymore, as she would emerge out onto the balcony as well, smile warmly and invite him to go on a run, a swim in the ocean, or just sit and bask in the warm sun surrounded by the rhythm of cicadas and leaves ruffling in the occasional wind. "Heaven," she would exclaim, reaching her fingers to the sky and exhaling a contented sigh before resuming her study of some obscure ancient Greek text.

"Heaven" was a set of table and chairs underneath his mother's walnut tree where she would spread out a multitude of texts and books in various languages. He always sat across from her, leaning back on the metal chair reading whatever caught his eyes in the town's bookstore that week, occasionally breaking her focus to ask for the definition of a Greek word. If her smile was any indication, she didn't mind.

Sitting underneath the shades of the tree now, he can see his father lounging in the office through the large French window. Ten years ago, she would be in there, too, arranging and categorizing his letters and gifts, taking notes on the latest batch of academic papers sent his way to be reviewed and approved.

He remembers the day she came, sporting a blue sundress, Ray-Ban, and the same espadrille sandals she would wear for the rest of that fateful summer. He was twenty then, about to enter his junior year at Gotham University. She was the youngest applicant his parents had ever accepted, a fresh graduate of Oxford and about to be shipped off to graduate school in Paris. It was the first time they had an actual Greek intern in their Greek home. Well, half-Greek, half-English, anyway.

Another house guest, another bore.

She grabbed her large suitcase from the trunk, gave a nonchalant "See ya" and waved as the cab pulled away, gravels groaning underneath the heavy tires. No name, no "Take care" or well wishes, just a "See ya," as if whoever was in the cab and she were actually going to cross paths again. He never did know if there were other passengers in the car, or if she just bid the driver farewell. Either way, she no doubt made friends with them. Always the charmer, he would later learn, and at times, resent wholeheartedly.

His parents greeted her with hugs and kisses despite it was their first time meeting in person. He watched the scene played out from his, soon to be their, balcony.

"Pretty," Selina commented, "confident, too."

A barely audible "hm" was his thoughtful reply. His mother was searching for him now, her eyes darting around the garden before seeing him leaning over the railing with his childhood friend. She gave a regal shake of her head to say, "come here," without uttering a single word. That was the cue to make his presence known.

Taking in summer interns was his parents' way of helping young scholars with academic research and giving them a professional experience like no other. Two months in this sun soaked Mediterranean town, reading, writing and learning with two world-renowned experts of European languages and history. The opportunity was unparalleled and extremely difficult to acquire that the summer guests always left with immense love and eternal gratitude.

His family had gotten so use to receiving gifts from all over the world, courtesy of former interns. If someone was in Europe, they would fly out of their way to be with his parents and relive the best summer of their lives, even if it was just for a couple of days. The relationships molded by sunlight, academia, ever flowing wine and exquisite meals in the family orchard would last a lifetime.

It was custom to have two or three guests over for dinner at least once a week: journalists, poets, professors vying for an audience with both Wayne doctors, a world class meal cooked by Alfred, or just curious about the latest nerdy foreigner the family had decided to adopt for the summer. His mother, ever the kind and welcoming soul, loved nothing more to have some rising experts keep up with the conversations in various languages while his father kept their glasses filled with fresh juices and wine.

He'd named the task "dinner drudgery," and after a couple of weeks, so did most of the summer interns. Not her, though. She loved meeting absolutely everyone and anyone, listening to their research, agreeing or refuting their points. It took a lot to rub her the wrong way. Then, she would narrow her eyes and a mask of coldness washed over, a civil yet unmistakable way of saying she was done with the conversation. It must have been excruciating to be on the receiving end of her glacial stare.

"Everybody has a story to tell," she explained her enthusiasm with dinner drudgery when he questioned, "it's nice to listen, and if necessary, argue." Everybody laughed, they always did when she was around.

They were absolutely taken with her, his parents, his friends, Alfred, the gardeners, the dinner guests. Soon, the same journalists and townspeople who frequented the family orchard would convince her to come to their places instead. His parents were always delighted when people liked the interns, because it meant not having to entertain them every single night.

Maybe it started in one of her dinner absences, when she was across town at some famous author's cottage. He caught himself staring at her empty chair and plates at the table, and willed himself to look away before anyone noticed. Or maybe it was when their eyes met and she held his gaze effortlessly, while his parents laughed about the absurd myth of emperor Caligula declaring war on Poseidon and ordering his army to throw spears into the ocean. He thought her gaze was one of indifference. It stung and would always cause a swell of insecurity, especially if it was after one of his few contributions to the conversations. The feeling was foreign in its nature, he did not consider himself insecure, and it hurt a lot more coming from her.

Maybe it started in "heaven" as he watched the sun kissed her tan shoulders through the leaves while she scribbled away on her notebook. He loved to look at her bathed in sunlight and ocean breeze, dark curls cascading down her shoulders and skin glowing from a thin sheen of sweat. Occasionally, she would stop and stretch to relieve the tension in her body from hunching over for so long. She moved slowly and deliberately, rolling her shoulders before reaching around to message her neck and exhaling deeply, maybe letting a yawn or two. He could see the underside of her arm and notice that it, too, was a delicious shade of bronzed olive, and be reminded of her partial-Mediterranean parentage. She was simultaneously more Greek and less Greek than he was.

"I have a knot in my shoulders, can you help me? I think it's cramping."

The way she spoke was so casual and familiar, might as well have asked him to fetch a glass of water or some more paper. She could ask him to jump off a cliff in the same tone of comradery and he would dive head first, without reservation nor question. He touched her hesitantly. His heart and head were swarmed with conflicting emotions that he had to consciously control his breathing. Hard, long breaths as his finger kneaded the warm skin and firm muscles of her upper back. She groaned, a sound of unadulterated pleasure. The same utterance one would make after a particularly grueling day in the summer heat and finally feeling the cold sprays of the shower washing away the grime and sweat.

Let the summer never end, he begged wordlessly to all the divine powers of old and new, so she would be here forever, so he would never stop hearing the sound of Dean Martin playing on her speaker as she worked in the garden, never stop seeing her shuffling around her father's study, never stop feeling her soft skin pushing and giving with the kneading motions of his fingers.

The massage lasted for maybe a minute, but felt like hours to him. Hours of torturous pleasure, finally touching what he had longed to touch yet knowing it could not go on any longer. It must not go on any longer. Two months were way too brief to sustain any kind of genuine relationships of a romantic nature, but at the same time way too long to be harboring sensations that threaten to overpour like river water crashing on the dam, demanding to be released. His mind and heart were at war with one another as logic collided harshly with emotions.

He sat back down and watched her stretch again before smiling and thanking him. She asked to return the favor.

"Oh you don't have to."

"I want to."

The words echoed in his mind as she reached for him. _I want to._ Did she want to touch him and feel his skin as much as he had wanted to touch her? Did she yearn to trace lines down his torso and limbs like he had wanted to caress hers? His entire body seized up involuntarily when she placed her palms flat on his back and dug her fingers into the crevices of his shoulders.

"You're so wound up, Wayne. Relax." She chuckled.

How could he when her touch ignited fires on his skin and in his gut? So swarmed with sensations, he leaned forward, and unconsciously out of her touch.

"That bad, huh? Guess that's why I'm a linguist not a masseuse." She laughed and shrugged her now relaxed shoulders, not offended whatsoever. Better to let her mistake his uneasiness for discomfort rather than revealing the truth that her hands stoked paralyzing flame from his shoulders to the very tip of his fingers and toes. Did Prometheus's hands carried the same heat when he selflessly stole fire from Zeus to give to mankind?

She was okay with him leaving her touch. She was okay with dinner drudgery and nosy guests. She was okay with his mother asking her to change one of the main arguments in her research proposal. He wasn't sure if he was envious or annoyed with that nonchalant attitude, because it gave no indication of her real intentions. She would speak her mind, it did not mean she was decipherable.

"Do you think she's arrogant? No one should be that casual about everything." He questioned the first evening she was gone.

His mother smiled, "I don't think she's arrogant. È timida. She's shy."

"Just you watch, this is how she'll say goodbye to us when the time comes," he waved a hand slowly, "See ya." The imitation earned a hearty laugh from his father.

"Meanwhile we'll just have to put up with her for eight long weeks now, won't we, mon chéri? I think you'll grow to like her." _What if I grow to hate her?_ He silently commented, not knowing yet that it was going to be the furthest thing from the truth.

Or maybe it started on the beach playing volleyball, or one of their long bike rides where he told her everything he knew about the town and its people. Or when he watched her cross the orchard with several books tucked under her arms from the balcony. Or maybe it started the moment they met, when she extended a hand and gave him her name.

"Pleasure meeting you. I'm Diana."

 _A/N: hello friends, I was inspired to write this after watching and reading Call Me By Your Name several times, hence lifted quotes and such. Have a rough idea of where I'm going with this story. If you are familiar with CMBYN please don't spoil in the comments :) I'm not going to stick 100% to that storyline anyway. If you are Greek and found that my Googling skill has been terrible, I'm so sorry. Thinking of switching between POVs. Let me know what you think!_


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